Partners in Crime
by Scallisaac
Summary: Scott and Stiles find themselves in somewhat of a sticky situation when they end up handcuffed to each other after a meeting with a rival pack, and it ends up bringing them closer than ever—both figuratively and literally.


"I can't _believe_ you!"

"Who, me? What did I do?" Stiles asks in his most innocent voice, saccharine-sweet and oozing with sarcasm, and even though they're sitting back to back in this cold, damp, cellar, Scott can picture the exact face that he knows Stiles must be making—amber eyes widened in mock-indignation and lips pouted stubbornly. "I didn't do anything!"

"They were going to let us go, Stiles! Without a fight! But you just _had_ to argue, _had_ to have the last word, didn't you?"

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, taking small comfort in the fact that some of the anger has drained from Scott's voice (he never has really been able to stay mad at Stiles for long, and he's always been too forgiving for his own good)—it's mostly just weary and exasperated at this point.

"Well, yeah, but they insulted you, Scott! I couldn't just let them get away with that!"

He feels rather than hears Scott's long exhale of breath, can sense the tension that has yet to leave the muscles that are pressed up against his.

"Stiles, how many times do I have to tell you: _I don't care_. Not every new pack that comes into town that we have to deal with is going to like me. We just have to be able to tolerate each other!"

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it, he really does, but the image is still fresh in his mind—the way the rival pack had looked down on Scott as if he wasn't worthy of their time, as though he was to young and too inexperienced to be taken seriously, their mocking laughter and cruel jeers and taunts still ringing in his ears as they had turned to walk out of the building, and the way he had snapped at them, unable to stand it any longer, hurling their insults right back in their faces.

"Yeah, well, I care. I care a lot."

Scott can sense the anger in Stiles' voice and sighs, and with the hand that's handcuffed to Stiles' hand he rubs soothing circles into his friend's palm with his thumb.

Even if it did get them into this mess, he can't help the warm feeling in his chest at Stiles' anger on his behalf, and the last of his own anger melts away.

It's with a much softer voice that he replies, "I know. And I appreciate that, just…try not to do it again next time, okay?"

"Aye, aye, captain" Stiles replies, doing a mock salute with his free hand, a smile dawning on his face and with some of his usual jauntiness returning.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Stiles speaks again.

"So what now? You really just can't use your supernatural strength or whatever to break these things?" he asks, lifting up his the wrist that's handcuffed (and Scott's along with it) and shaking it.

"Our pack knows where we are. They probably know by now that something must've gone wrong and I'm sure there on their way as we speak. And as for these"—Scott adds, giving the handcuffs his own little shake—"well, they must be laced with some sort of mountain ash or something. You know I've been trying, but I can't seem to break them."

(It's not like they're new to this—they've always been partners in crime, and they've always been prone to getting in trouble together.

Scott is suddenly reminded of the time when they were little kids and Sheriff Stilinski caught them tag-teaming to steal the snacks that Stiles' mom hid in the top drawer of their cupboard, and as punishment had jokingly declared them 'under arrest' and handcuffed them together, making them sit in time out and think about what they'd done.

Of course, those handcuffs had been plastic and the Sheriff had been more amused than angry—this situation wasn't quite the same.)

Stiles shrugs. "Ah, well if I had to be handcuffed to someone and locked up in creepy underground cellar, at least it's you."

Scott smiles and shakes his head in amusement.

"The feeling's mutual, buddy."

They're not really sure how much time passes before they can finally hear voices nearby—time always seems to fly by when they're together, and somehow they've managed to keep themselves occupied to the point that they've almost forgotten what they're doing there in the first place.

Kira yanks open the door to the cellar, takes in the scene before her, rolls her eyes and pulls them both to their feet by the chain between the handcuffs that's linking them together.

"Guys, _how_ does this kind of thing even happen?"

Scott raises an eyebrow and looks over at Stiles accusingly, who coughs in embarrassment and rubs the back of his neck.

"It would be you two," another voice chimes in, and Lydia comes striding toward them, shaking her head tiredly.

Scott just shrugs because, well, he can't really argue with that.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for coming to get us, though—hopefully it wasn't too much trouble. And, uh, I think we're going to have to pay a little trip to Deaton, too, if you wouldn't mind giving us a ride."

Lydia glances at where their hands are linked together and sighs, because it's clear that neither of them is going to be able to drive anywhere like this without being a liability to themselves and others.

"Alright, alright, let's go. But you owe me: both of you. Tonight was _supposed_ to be girls' night."

"So there's nothing you can do?"

"I'm afraid not. These are laced with a particular type of mountain ash—it should wear off on its own in a couple of days, but until then, the two of you are going to have to stay like this and do everything together."

Deaton looks at them expectantly, as if expecting some sort of disappointment or annoyance at this news, but Scott and Stiles merely shrug.

"So, basically no difference then, right?" Lydia asks from where she's lounging against the counter, a smirk playing on her lips.

Scott and Stiles exchange a look and realize that she's right, honestly—they're already pretty much inseparable. This won't exactly be hard for them.

"Basically" they respond together, smiling despite themselves.

It's a good thing their parents are away for the weekend—this way they can avoid lengthy explanations and awkward situations, and in the end they make the decision to stay over Scott's house for the time being (mostly because Scott insists his bed is comfier, and Stiles has to admit that the McCall's always have better snacks lying around the house than the Stilinskis, what with his efforts to keep his dad eating healthy).

As it turns out, having to share a hand for a day really isn't at all very difficult.

It can be a little annoying sometimes, like when one of them forgets and goes to reach for something with the hand that's cuffed to the other, and the bathroom situation isn't exactly ideal, but overall, it's really no different than any other weekend, where it's custom for them to be attached at the hip.

When their eyes grow heavy and the time comes for them to go to sleep, Stiles flops himself down on the bed, dragging Scott down with him. After a few minutes of shuffling around and tossing and turning to make their selves comfortable, they find that the way the handcuffs are positioned it works best for them to face each other.

When Scott wakes up the next morning, Stiles face is inches from his, and he tries to ignore the sudden swooping feeling in his stomach and what that might mean. His eyes trail down to Stiles lips, which are slightly parted in sleep, and he stares for a few seconds before flipping over on his back to avoid doing something he might regret.

Unfortunately, he forgets that they're hands are still joined and the the tug on Stiles arm jolts his friend awake. Stiles opens his eyes blearily and blinks a few times before yawning loudly and sitting upright, pulling Scott up along with him.

"I'm starving. Let's make pancakes."

Scott doesn't even bother trying to argue that they've only just woken up, because he knows from experience that when Stiles is in one of these moods there's no stopping him.

A little later, they're standing in the kitchen covered in flour and eggs and syrup other various baking essentials with a plate of a stack of something that sort of resembles pancakes in front of them—they're more-or-less edible, anyway, and they eat them all regardless.

(As it turns out, attempting to cook while handcuffed to his best friend might not be the best idea Stiles has ever had.)

"Dude, we made such a mess. I'm pretty sure I've got syrup in my hair—and you've got powder all over your face. I think it's time."

By 'it's time,' Stiles knows Scott is referring to the shower—it's something they've been putting off, but they knew they were going to have to face sooner or later.

Stiles sighs and nods, and it's like he's in some sort of daze for the next few minutes, until finally the sound of running water from the showerhead being turned on and the feeling as the drops hit his exposed skin snaps him out of it.

It's not like they've never seen each other naked, but there's kind of a big difference between taking bubble baths together when you're seven and taking a shower together when you're seventeen and are facing the dawning realization that you may very well be in love with your best friend.

"Stiles…"

He hears Scott call his name over the sound of rushing water in his ears and he peels one eyelid open.

"You, uh, don't have to close your eyes if you don't want. I don't really care."

And so he opens them, really opens them and sees, and _oh my god _is it a wonderful sight.

Scott is grinning sheepishly at him (it takes all his willpower not to glance down at where the water is trickling down his friend's skin and over his toned muscles and down his chest, and his stomach, and his…legs).

"I can get your back for you, if you want, and you know, anywhere it might be hard to reach with one hand."

Stiles just nods mutely and they shower in silence for a while, Scott scrubbing the pancake batter that's somehow found its way on Stiles' back and Stiles shampooing the syrup out of Scott's hair, and it's like something out of one of Stiles' wildest dreams.

At some point they're facing each other again, and Stiles blames it on the heat from the shower and the steam that's clogging his brain and clouding his better judgment, when he decides _fuck it_— because this is the perfect opportunity, and Scott is right there in front of him, and he leans in to close the distance between them.

And then he's kissing Scott, he's kissing his best friend, and Scott is _kissing him back_, and his brain goes all fuzzy and as Scott's free hand travels lower and lower down on Stiles' body Stiles thanks his lucky stars for supernatural-repellent handcuffs and his unfailing knack for getting he and his best friend into situations like this.

The handcuffs come off on their own later that night, just like Deaton said they would, and Stiles is by all means free to go back to his own home and sleep in his own room.

(They wind up tangled up in each other and sharing Scott's bed again, anyway.)


End file.
